


Diablo: Archfall

by darkhelmetj



Series: Diablo: Archfall [1]
Category: Diablo (Video Game), Diablo III
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Asexual Character, Asexual Relationship, Bisexual Character, Burning Hells, Canon Divergent as of Diablo 4, Chronic Pain, Developing Relationship, Disabled Character, Established Relationship, Fallen Angels, Grief/Mourning, High Heavens, Hurt/Comfort, Illustrations, Injury Recovery, Mortal Angels, Mortality, Multi, Nephalem, Pansexual Character, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slice of Life, Survivor Guilt, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-07
Updated: 2020-01-17
Packaged: 2021-02-01 02:57:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 19,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21346924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darkhelmetj/pseuds/darkhelmetj
Summary: The Crystal Arch has fallen, taking with it the Eternal Conflict and the High Heavens. In the shadow of Archfall, New Tristram’s adventurers begin to rebuild their lives and deal with the growing threat of civil unrest. But the Archshards that have fallen to Sanctuary are powerful, and where power lingers, so too do the Burning Hells. Sequel to Diablo: Amor Aeternus. (Tags will be updated as required.) ON HOLD due to pandemic -- not cancelled!
Relationships: Eirena the Enchantress/Lyndon the Scoundrel, Malthael (Diablo III)/Original Character(s), Tyrael/Original Character(s) (Diablo)
Series: Diablo: Archfall [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1538887
Comments: 20
Kudos: 16





	1. Dust - I

**Author's Note:**

> If you haven't already, please read Diablo: Amor Aeternus, the series that comes before this one! It contains important plot points and character development.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A wanderer and his guardian stumble upon a shard of the Heavens.

* * *

Turning and turning in the widening gyre   
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;  
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;  
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,  
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere   
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;  
The best lack all conviction, while the worst   
Are full of passionate intensity.  
  


\- “The Second Coming”, William Butler Yeats

* * *

**Dust — I **

Deep in the barren wastes and shadowed by a dune rivalling the tallest mortal towers in size, was a crystal. Its facets glimmered as the sun eventually crept forward. Its faces were pristine, its corners unsullied by the ravaging winds that scoured the rest of the desert. Only a bucket-sized fraction of it jutted out from the earth. The rest lay buried underneath a crown of rock and glass, formed when the sand had vaporized upon impact.

Davik ran gloved fingers along its surface, marveling as his reflection shone back from within the opalescence. There was a thinly translucent layer to the crystal that captured his image like a mirror.

“Finally,” he breathed, withdrawing a worn pickaxe from his belt. The crystal rang with the smallest tap, its song echoing out over the wastes until it wavered discordantly in the wind. Unsurprisingly, it remained intact. It was the same as the other pieces, then.

To the side, his guardian stood atop a minor dune, the tassels of her head wrap tossing about as the breeze picked up. “Is this it?”

“I’m fairly certain.” He dropped to his knees and began to brush away the fresh sand gathering around the crystal’s base. A half a foot down, then two, and he saw the formation begin to widen. “It’s big. Not like those other ones.”

“I worried as much. What in the Hells are you going to do with one this large? Drag it back with a mule cart?”

“The usual.” From a pouch on his belt, he withdrew a gem that was suspended between pristine silver clasps and attached to a loop of silver twine. He closed his eyes and dangled it over an open palm, then began to swing it gently. “Find it. Dig it out.”

Images blossomed in his mind. Layers upon layers of rock and dust, built from millennia of unrelenting heat and harsh gales. Bones, in places, some ancient. Pebbles. Shattered stones. Glass.

A hollow.

He snatched the scrying gem up and dropped it back in its pouch, then fetched and tossed his pickaxe in the direction he’d sensed. It sailed across the cloudless sky before slamming into the sand. A small crevice formed where it landed, growing as granules began to seep down around the tool into the cavern below.

“Then write it up for the history books,” he finished with a wry grin. “How about you?”

“Let’s get out of the heat to start. Then we can talk more about your obsession with jumping into dark caves and how much I hate it.”


	2. Act I: Breathe - Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grief comes in many forms. For some, mourning is enough. For others, it is only a mask for the real sorrow they feel buried deep. Malthael searches for answers he cannot find, while the others try to rebuild the pieces of their lives after Archfall.

* * *

I had a dream, which was not all a dream.  
The bright sun was extinguish'd, and the stars  
Did wander darkling in the eternal space,  
Rayless, and pathless, and the icy earth  
Swung blind and blackening in the moonless air;  
Morn came and went—and came, and brought no day,  
And men forgot their passions in the dread  
Of this their desolation  
  


\- “Darkness”, Lord Byron

* * *

** **

**Chapter One: Resignation**

** _1327, Late Summer_ **

“You are sure, then?”

“I think so. Yes.” The Aspect of Hope pulled Al’maiesh tighter about her shoulders and neck, glancing to Tyrael for a moment before she returned to staring at the dwindling bonfire. The flames that had once towered the height of the surrounding trees now flickered minutely between the burned-out husks; the light reflected sharply in her eyes.

“This is my world now,” she said gently. “And I would learn all I can of it.”

Overhead, the trails of falling stars became visible as the glare of the pyre continued to fade. They had been tumbling across the firmament relentlessly since the Heavens had fallen several weeks earlier: broken pieces of the Silver City that had been scattered into the Places Between and were gradually making their way to Sanctuary. Each night was like the Night of Souls come again, though the real Night was not for some time yet.

The sky wept, Tyrael thought. For the end of the Angiris. And from the relief that this world, at least, would continue to turn come morning.

A warm wind stirred the embers, sending a cloud of crackling sparks into the darkness. The glow briefly illuminated a thin silhouette standing in the distance, its head tipped to the stars, watching.

“Have you told him yet?” Tyrael asked.

“I did.”

“Did he ask to accompany you?”

“No.”

“Odd. I thought he would have.”

“I already bid him stay and rest.” Auriel smiled, her gaze following Tyrael’s to where Malthael was hiding in the forest’s depths, out of earshot of the clearing. “You know his stubbornness well. But even he is not foolish enough to rebel when I have said I cannot fix an ailment. The cure for the type of malady he acquired is time. His body can only heal as fast as his soul.”

“If only time were the cure for all our troubles.” Tyrael sighed, closing his eyes for a moment and leaning his weight onto El’druin’s hilt. The sword sank a fraction into the dirt before stopping.

“Ah, verily. Though, this is a good place to start.” Her expression grew distant. “I am not sure I will ever truly stop mourning them. It aches like a wound that cannot heal. And it is strange, because at its root, this is nothing more than change. Change is the natural order of this world. It is what drives mortals to become greater than they were.” She ran a boot across the golden leaves that had been crushed and pressed into the soil. “The world grows and then dies, and then lives again come spring. It carries humanity with it. And it leaves our kin behind.”

“We will keep them with us in our memories.”

“Like ghosts, brother?”

“Yes. Like ghosts.”

They stood silently for a long while, the only remaining sound the snapping of cinders. In that solitude, Tyrael allowed his thoughts to return to his kin one final time, before re-summoning the mantle of composure that had become his constant companion since he had Fallen. Though they had built the fire for Auriel so she could bid farewell to their lost siblings in private, it also brought him a semblance of relief for an ache he hadn’t realized he still carried.

“We will keep Talus’ar safe here,” he said, eventually. “That is one burden you needn’t carry.”

“Most literally. We will travel light. And I think we will leave come morning, if Chith is ready.”

“I assume he is,” Tyrael chuckled. “You’ve seen his enthusiasm.”

“I think it is wonderful to see the Light continue even after such darkness. I hope he will be my guide should I ever lose my way.”

“I cannot imagine a time when you would.”

“Neither I. But mortality has already held surprises, and it may continue to do so.” She turned to leave, then hesitated, before placing her hand over Tyrael’s, her fingers clutching his tightly. “Take care of Malthael while I am gone. He sees the darkness more profoundly than any of us. It will always be his struggle.”

“I will do my best. You have my word.”

* * *

** _1327, Early Fall_ **

“Take them outside, Malthael.” Farah gestured at the many piles of books he had stacked on the table. “You have my permission. It’s busy in here.”

He raised an eyebrow and continued to read. He was hardly concerned with the busyness of the library. “The noise does not bother me.”

“You haven’t been outside for three days. Do not think your sleeping by the hearth has escaped me.”

“I would not dare.” He flinched as she looped two fingers over the top of his book and tugged it downward, forcing him to look her in the eyes. “Yes?”

“Contrary to some opinions, you are neither a bat nor an owl. You need sunlight. And I need this table.”

“This reading is exceedingly important.”

“And it may happen wherever the books are present.”

She was serious, then. He lowered the text to his lap and sighed. He couldn’t even try and persuade her with a glare. She was immune to the expression, in part because she was fond of him, and in part because she was a terrifying force of nature who accepted no grief in her domain.

“They will weather,” he said evenly. “Dust. Moisture. Invasive insects.”

“Oh, I know you will take excellent care of them to ensure they do not. Now, here.” She pushed a basket into his hands. “Take some of my lunch and your books and find a comfortable bench someplace out in the square.”

* * *

To Malthael’s mild relief, he was able to convince her to let him leave most of the books in the library if he promised to take a break. She placed them in tidy piles behind her desk and watched him unblinkingly until he gathered the rest against his chest, the basket of lunch looped about one arm.

Outside the library, a temperate wind rustled the trees and sent colorful leaves spinning across Tristram’s cobblestone roads. The stones retained lingering charring from the mass funeral pyres that had burned two months prior. The square bustled with residents and visitors alike. Some were from the host of Nephalem warriors, while others were refugees from surrounding lands that had not yet returned to their homes to rebuild. Children raced between market stalls, waving flags and loaves of bread like swords.

The weather was unseasonably warm for the time of year. It could have been coincidence, but he suspected it was one of many effects of the Arch’s collapse. Not all the side effects were good, however. Unlike in years past, the air lacked the abrasive scent of harvest dust. The fields closest to Tristram had been razed by the Luminarei during the battle. And while harvest proceeded in some places, any areas that had seen conflict had nothing to gather. While Tristram’s stores were bountiful, there were others who would be strapped for food over the winter months.

He blinked and shook himself from his thoughts, having realized he’d been standing and staring at an unused bench. It was not the first time it had happened recently, either. Research had all but consumed him since he had first received reports of pieces of the Arch being uncovered in Sanctuary. What he wanted was to set out and assess the potential danger firsthand. What he could do was exactly the opposite.

The two attempts he had made to scry the situation with the Chalice had failed, largely because the shards seemed to cloud the artefact’s vision even worse. There was also the issue of his health, which he had been trying to not think about because it infuriated him. He was too physically weak to tolerate Chalad’ar’s effects for long. He had overdrawn on Death during the battle and his stamina had been slow to recover. Auriel also believed he had lost more blood than he realized, and no amount of her healing could replace something that had to replenish naturally.

It was utterly infuriating. He hardly had time to waste lounging about and ignoring work when the Archshards could very well be destabilizing the entire fabric of reality.

There was no avoiding the truth, though. He was quite a bit older in physical form than his sister and even than Tyrael. With mortal age came certain hardships. If he overexerted himself now, it would cause him worse issues in the future. And he couldn’t imagine his forearms throbbing any harder than they already did since they’d been torn up with ice.

The sudden excited shriek of a child at play wrenched him back to reality again. Hells take him, he was still staring at the bench.

Perhaps Farah was right, and he needed to get out more than he wanted to admit. He supposed he could sit in the sun for a bit. It would not hurt the books regardless of what he’d claimed. He pursed his lips, dropped his stack of books to the bench, and resigned himself to resuming his studies in the outdoors.

* * *

Tyrael watched from around the corner as Malthael settled onto the bench, his brother’s expression one of poorly disguised resignation. He had been dropping hints for Malthael to get out for several days, and he had ignored all of them as a rock did the rain. It had not been hard to petition Farah to the cause, especially when she had walked into the library two mornings in a row to find him sleeping under a cloak beside the hearth.

That Malthael was absorbed in his work was not unusual or cause for concern. That he had become seemingly immune to the world around him was what worried Tyrael. The behaviour his brother had indulged in while angelic carried over poorly to the mortal realm. As the Archangel of Wisdom, he had spent years gazing calmly into the Chalice, seeking answers. As a man, he fixated on uncovering solutions to problems that were beyond him. Instead of giving up as others would do, he tried harder, often punishing himself unintentionally by forgetting to eat or sleep, just as he had been doing since Auriel and Chith had left town.

“You’re lucky he’s distracted. You are a poor shadow.”

Tyrael jumped, then chuckled as Aya strode to his side. She had returned to wearing her bright arcane robes a month after her mentor’s passing, though her eyes retained a lingering seriousness.

“Your sister finally pushed him outside.”

“No smart person fights with her in her library. Even him.”

“Truly. Were you seeking me in particular?”

She nodded. “I spoke with Bron, and most of the remaining visitors are on their way back home. A few were interested in staying here permanently, and I tasked Myriam with helping them find lodging. A few others wished to stay for the winter months only. We’ll be putting them up at the Slaughtered Calf.”

“Oh?”

“Some of the folks from Salvos, as well as a few area farmers. That young couple Malthael knows, for example. They lost their harvest when they brought it to market.”

“Ah, noted. How does Bron feel about them remaining here?”

“Surprisingly nonplussed. I did mention throwing him some spare gold here and there.” She paused, her face darkening. “Li-Ming left a great deal to me. I can think of no better use for it than helping those in need.”

“She would have liked that,” Tyrael said gently, clasping her shoulder and squeezing it. “The search for justice does not end when the battle concludes. It cares for the downtrodden during war _and_ peace.”

“How very wise of you.” She glanced again at Malthael. “Is he all right?”

Was he ever? The Aspect of Wisdom had always concerned himself with things that most mortals would never dream of considering. However, that experience did not lessen the anxiety that was clearly eating away at him. The more they heard of the Archshards and the possible effects they were having on Sanctuary, the more Malthael fretted and second guessed their decision.

“He will be,” Tyrael replied, frowning. “When, I cannot say. He carries the bulk of the guilt we all possess for our choice. It was on his direction we acted. He knew that when he proposed the idea, and he has not forgotten.”

“It was the right decision.”

“I believe so. He does not. It is wisdom’s burden to consider everything from all angles.”

“That seems needlessly consuming.”

“Yes. And even after so many years, I would be lying to say I knew how to help him.”

“Being out here is a start. Fresh air is good for everyone.” The arcanist inhaled deeply. “Are _you_ all right?”

“I always am. I have mourned my kin. I remain disappointed in Imperius’ choices.”

“Emotion isn’t weakness, Tyrael. You continually misunderstand this.”

“You believe I should feel more?”

“I know you do.” She looked towards his hand, which he had unintentionally tightened against her shoulder. “What I wish is for you to express it, or we’ll be dealing with two of you coming undone.” She smiled mischievously. “I know a few things that would help you relax.”

Oh. They had not spoken of that since the morning after, if only to admit they were comfortable with things as they were and in no hurry to pursue it further. Tyrael had been rather thankful for that, as he had always staunchly avoided becoming entangled with someone he knew. He did not deny the pleasures of the flesh. He just did not like how vulnerable it made him feel, particularly when the other individual was at risk of not returning alive on any given day.

“No strings. I promise.” Her grin softened, as if she was reading his mind. “You know where I will be. Come find me later, if you’re interested.” Before he could reply, she strode off with an intentional swoop of her robes.

He folded his arms and sank against the nearest wall, trying to tell himself that taking her up on the offer was a terrible idea. He had seen far too many mortals succumb to similar situations and completely ruin friendships. And that was in situations where there wasn’t another matter complicating things.

Hellsdamned if it wasn’t extremely tempting, though. It would take his mind off worrying about his brother.

“Confound it,” he muttered, knowing he was doomed to think about her for the rest of the day regardless of his decision.

* * *

“I am still not comfortable with this.” Lena folded her arms and considered her husband from across the tavern table. A mostly finished pot of stew that Bron had brought over sat between them. “It is a very long time for Nat to be away from home.”

“This uncertainty is going to be worse for him.” Talm sighed. “We don’t know if the farm is still there. At least if we stay here he’ll have a place to sleep.”

“I cannot shake this. I would rather know. I would know if my mother lives, and my uncle, and my nieces and nephews.”

“I want to know if my parents are alive too. But we can’t take the risk. Not for him.” He gestured at Nat, who was busy gathering empty mugs off tables and toddling them over to Bron. “He needs some stability. Perhaps then he’ll calm at night.”

Stability would do nothing to erase what had happened to them at Salvos. Lena knew this well, for even many years later, _her_ earliest memories still returned to haunt her. She frowned, pushing them away and returning her attention to Talm.

“We are safest here,” he insisted. “With friends who can protect us.”

“One friend, who we barely know. Why should we trust him?”

His eyes widened. “He saved our lives! Why shouldn’t we?”

She truly loved Talm, or she would not have accepted his marriage proposal. He was endearingly idealistic, and she appreciated the optimism that he wielded relentlessly against the world. Still, naivete was naivete.

“He uses the dead,” she said bluntly. “He kills without mercy.”

“He saved. Our. Lives.”

And he wielded curved blades. Ones she distantly remembered from a towering city filled with fog and fire and the screams of the dead.

She didn’t have the heart to argue with Talm very long about them remaining in Tristram, for his reasons did indeed make sense. But even if they did, she was not about to trust the strange, silent man who set her ill at ease whenever he passed by. Not until she found out the truth herself.

They would remain the winter. And she would find her answers.

* * *

One early morning several days later, Malthael was returning a stack of books to the library when he was unexpectedly accosted in the streets. He hissed as someone grabbed his shoulder, his thoughts immediately going to his weapons, which were at home beside his bed and completely unreachable.

** _“You could not even lift them if you tried. How useless.”_ **

_Stop_, he silently hissed to the intrusive voice.

“You are jumpy, friend.” Lyndon mercifully interrupted the thoughts as he stepped in front of him and raised his hand in greeting. “I did not mean to startle you.”

Malthael’s fingers twitched as his pulse thudded through them. He closed his eyes and forced himself to breathe deeply, trying to stem the sudden adrenaline. “I thought we had agreed not to do that to each other.”

“I tried calling to you, but you seemed preoccupied.” The scoundrel gave him a lopsided grin. “I think you need sleep more than new reading material.”

The two considered each other for a long moment, before Lyndon eventually glanced to his empty, tied-off sleeve. It was the biggest acknowledgement of his loss that Malthael had personally seen him make since it had happened. Uncharacteristic, for a man who wore his feelings as publicly and proudly as much as Malthael tried to keep his hidden.

“Ah, but this is awkward,” Lyndon finally said. He kicked at a loose cobblestone, sending a piece of it skittering into the side of a building.

“Why?”

“Because I have tried my hardest to avoid this moment.”

Malthael raised an eyebrow.

“I need your help.”

* * *

After they dropped off the books, Lyndon led Malthael to one of the groves outside Tristram, far enough away they would have a semblance of privacy. He crawled onto a large bolder and rested his right arm on a knee. It had taken weeks, but he had finally stopped trying to mimic the motion with the missing limb. He still felt it during those moments, though. It was hard to forget it was missing when even its absence managed to ache.

Malthael sat cross-legged across from him on the grass, his cloak lowered to his shoulders, revealing dishevelment uncharacteristically bad even for the scholar. Dark circles rimmed his eyes, made more pronounced by his pallor. He also hadn’t shaved in several days; though it was common to see him with a degree of stubble due to his time on the road, Lyndon rarely saw him so completely unkempt while in town.

Oh, how he wanted to lash at him for his irresponsibility. He hadn’t done what he had done for Malthael to abuse himself through self-neglect. But Malthael also knew damn well how stupid he was being. Pointing it out would accomplish nothing. It was one of the frustrations of being his friend.

Yet, there were also advantages--his listening ear being one of them.

“I’ve been working with Haedrig to modify my crossbow.” Lyndon glanced forlornly at the weapon that was still attached to his belt. “We had no luck. I can’t reload it once it runs out of bolts. And I don’t seem to have the magic about me that the demon hunters do to fire and reload a one-handed version.”

“If Haedrig has already assisted you, I am not sure I can offer additional suggestions for modification.”

“That’s not why I need your help.” He pinched a loose fragment of rock away from the boulder and tossed it as far as he could into the grass. “I never did tell you why I fight with one, did I? Suppose there was no reason to.”

Malthael shook his head.

“My brother said it was a good weapon for me. I could fight from a distance and have more time to run away.” He laughed. “It was good advice when I was younger. But I keep finding myself in these ridiculous situations where I can’t run. And now, the option is gone for me altogether.”

_Gone_.

He snaked his fingers back to his knee, clutching it tightly as his phantom-limb pained again. “I’m a scrapper. I fight to survive, and I don’t plan on giving in and becoming weak just because of this. I will find a new way to defend myself.”

Malthael nodded silently, bidding him continue.

“I have some ideas. I am sure some will be terrible. Hopefully not all. But I need someone who will not judge my ineptitude.”

“Never.”

“And who can ruthlessly kick my arse until I learn to win again. Ah, of course. Now you smile.”

“Do not think I am amused. I am simply glad you think I can assist you.”

Lyndon snorted; Malthael was a terrible liar. “You are addicted to challenges, my friend. I knew you would agree.” And perhaps, it would be good for them both; the other man clearly needed something else to focus on until he recovered from his brush with Death. “Now, let’s find us a meal and some drinks and make a plan.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Better late than never, as they say! Welcome to Diablo: Archfall, which is firmly AU as of the Diablo 4 announcement. I'm excited to be writing something that's going a different path and am also looking forward to the new game when it is released; Lilith looks amazing.
> 
> I really appreciate your patience in waiting for this. Life became quite busy this year in ways I did not expect. I still found ways to keep writing, and though I don't entirely have the series finished, I have about 55k words completed on it, and notes for the remaining stuff I have to write. I think you are all really going to enjoy this ride. It goes some pretty neat directions. However, before we can get there, we have to watch some of our characters hit rock bottom first. We left them off in a dark place.
> 
> Some housekeeping items: Tags will be updated as I post each chapter. No spoilers. All Archfall material will be posted under this single story, except for some more (tenderly) explicit material I have planned. That will go in its own story, be tagged and rated accordingly, and be filed under the overarching series. When Acts begin posting, they will usually be released a chapter a week until I need to go write/edit more material. You may notice the overall story jumps around a bit more than Amor Aeternus did, mostly because I'm fielding a lot more characters and side-stories.


	3. Act I: Breathe - Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lena researches her past. Malthael finds an unexpected friend. The Night of Souls approaches in a much-changed New Tristram.

**Chapter Two: Research**

Gradually, New Tristram began to relinquish its short-term residents. Refugees from the surrounding lands began to return home if they were able. Warriors who had come for the battle against the Host left for locations where their services were needed more urgently. Even some of the town's permanent residents took to the road at Tyrael's behest; the unrest in Sanctuary after the attacks was pronounced, and the Aspect of Justice was openly concerned about the welfare of innocents during the coming winter.

Thus, as the town emptied and its gates said silent farewell to many Nephalem, Farah often found herself alone in the library. Until then, she had been so busy she had not truly had time to consider the sudden absences in her life. There had been logistics to help Tyrael take care of and baskets of knitting and food-stuffs to deliver, and the always present work required in the library itself. Now, however, as the other tasks dwindled, she found herself pondering the missing, whose absences were suddenly obvious and unsettling.

Osseus, for one. She would never miss his unique scent, but he had always been pleasant to her. The necromancer had been a fixture at the library since she had come to Tristram. They had never recovered his body; Malthael had told her that Osseus and Zaira had made a particularly gruesome sacrifice to cause the distraction that had allowed them to find Imperius. Whenever she thought of him, she mouthed a silent thank-you to the ceiling.

In many ways, those loses were easier to reconcile than what had occurred with her Sight. The more she busied herself with re-arranging reference materials, the more she wondered if she had been played, and if her actions had brought about the defeat they had sought to avoid. She had no explanation for why the visions had come to her in the first place, nor if the shadow of the Prime Evil she had once seen was a manifestation of her own misgivings or a sign that the Hells had interceded into her dreams.

Everything she had seen had come to pass in some form. And she had assumed because they had kept Malthael from the gruesome end she had envisioned that her visions were malleable. Perhaps they were; perhaps she did See the threads of the future weave and pull just as Malthael described having done in ages past with the Chalice, always shifting and changing, unlike the world that the Archangel Itherael had glimpsed within Talus'ar.

Or perhaps everything really was carved into rock; her Sight was the portent of an unavoidable future, and she was a keeper of lost possibilities and immutable truths, neither good nor bad but simply there, existing as eternity had always existed.

The others had all insisted adamantly that the destruction of the Arch was inevitable. Auriel had described a Heavens that had been irreparably sick for millennia, and Tyrael and Malthael had both agreed that releasing the Light ensured its preservation in some form or another. It was part of why Auriel and Chith had set out from Tristram into the wider world; she wanted to prove with evidence their decision was the right one.

Farah dearly hoped that they were finding it and would return in the spring with much-needed encouragement. Her fixation on their decisions was only a fraction of the growing obsession Malthael was brewing. She could only remind him of the power of hindsight so often before he eventually withdrew to his books, shutting out the world again for days on end. That he could not fully determine the ramifications of their actions had sent him into a spiral of research and anxiety. He wanted to leave Tristram and see first-hand what had occurred but was unable to do so because of his health.

He was consumed by inaction. And she was subsequently consumed by her inability to help him find peace. All the things that usually calmed him were ineffective, and he had never expressed an interest in physical pleasures, which otherwise might have served as stress relief. She was at a loss of what to do next.

_We will weather the storm_, she thought, as she dragged a finger down a dusty book spine. _Somehow. But we will. We have survived looking into eternity and the fires of the Light. And we will survive this too._

The library door creaked open, interrupting her musings. She glanced over from her filing work to see a young woman enter. It took her a moment to recognize her; the first time she had seen Lena, she had been one of many battered and dirty survivors from Salvos. Now she wore one of Aya's older robes and had pulled her hair up in a style Farah had only seen used by western nobility. It was a curious choice for a farmer's wife. Then again, Lena could also read; Farah suspected there was a great deal more to the woman than she knew.

"It is good to see you." Farah smiled and bowed. "Aya told me your family is staying for the winter months?"

"Yes. Talm is concerned the farm might not be standing."

"That's an understandable concern. How is your little one faring?"

"Well enough." She frowned. "He cries at night. Frankly, I wish we had not gone to Salvos. Had we been home, he would have been spared such an experience."

Potentially, Farah thought, though she did not voice it aloud. "I am sorry to hear that." When Lena did not answer, she spread her arms and gestured at the shelves. "Now, I assume you are here for some books. Can I help you find anything?"

"I'm looking for regional histories."

"We have plenty of those." She directed her towards one of the shelves near the back, where an extensive set of matching texts were filed according to year. "If you have any trouble deciphering the hand, please let me know."

Lena smiled slightly. "My mother's writing is not particularly polished. I am sure I will manage."

Farah waited an uncomfortable moment too long to see if the woman needed anything else, before it became quite apparent that she wasn't up for conversation. She ducked away back to her desk, fetching the book she had left open earlier and forcing herself to read instead of stare as Lena wandered about the library. Still, every so often she sneaked a glance in time to see the younger woman pull another book from the shelf and add it to a growing pile. Occasionally Lena would flip through a few of them, frowning, before returning the texts to the shelves.

Eventually, Farah gave up reading altogether and tried to track exactly what she was searching for. A good half hour later, she figured it out.

"We do not have much on Westmarch here," she said softly. "At least on the histories shelves."

Lena looked up, surprised. "How did you know?"

"A good guess, based on where you were looking."

"That seems a strange omission."

"There are details about the city that are better kept in the arcane section. We do not shy from truth here. We simply keep it on the proper shelf."

"Is that a shelf I may look at?"

Farah chewed her bottom lip and considered what she knew of Lena; she certainly seemed determined to find whatever it was she sought. But she also knew Malthael had not told either her or Talm the truth about his past. Whatever else she was looking for, the Reaper of Westmarch was unavoidable in any historical record of the city.

The books would also not reveal much detail, though, and she was loath to keep knowledge from someone who sought it. If Lena uncovered anything uncomfortable, then she supposed she would have to guide her from there.

"Of course. Follow me."

* * *

Lyndon groaned as Malthael casually disarmed him of his dagger for the sixth time. He spun the weapon and pointed it at Lyndon's throat, letting the tip gently tickle his skin. He had opted to fight without blades at all, a fact that made his constant besting of Lyndon even more frustrating. Fighting alongside Malthael was one thing. It was quite another to be on the receiving end of his martial prowess.

"Blast it all." Lyndon inhaled deeply, using his irritation to mask him catching his breath.

After a beat, Malthael shrugged and withdrew, holding out the dagger for Lyndon to retrieve. "It was a good attempt."

"I'm also clumsier with each good attempt."

"Different rhythms. Your muscles will learn."

"I'm not even sure this feels right." It made him stiff, that much he knew. He returned to the sitting-rock and sheathed the blade. "There are other weapons I could try. I only grabbed the dagger because it's the most familiar." When his friend stayed silent, Lyndon gave him a lopsided smirk; at least some things were the same. "Come now, Malthael. Are you going to withhold your wisdom? Can't be lost in thought that quickly."

"You may be right."

"A different blade, then? Or a new weapon altogether? Perhaps a mace."

"No. Not the weapon." He ran a palm over his chin, dragging his fingers across his lips and the unkempt stubble. "We are overthinking this."

"You are, perhaps."

Malthael shook his head. "Your brother was correct. You are not a duelist. You seek to fight, then escape. I see no reason to change that."

"Then how do we go about things?"

He gestured for the dagger again.

Lyndon shrugged, then withdrew the weapon and tossed it back to him. Before he could react, Malthael leapt, blade flush against his forearm; at the last moment, he flipped it outward and sliced at Lyndon's throat. Lyndon reflexively attempted to duck, forgetting he could not lean his missing arm against the rock. Instead, he tumbled to Malthael's feet, head spinning and chest burning with the intense desire to slam his foot into the man's crotch.

"Arse," he spat, turning to hide the flush of embarrassment cross his face. He shook his head when Malthael offered him a hand up and shakily stood without help.

"Perhaps. But that was the idea."

"Humiliating me?"

"Ducking. Only, next time, try kicking my feet. Or, perhaps roll under. You will find something that works."

Then, Lyndon understood, and he was not entirely enamoured with the idea. "You want me to fight like _you_? Forgive me, but I don't possess your angelic sense of movement."

"You won't need it. I have seen others fight this way, utilizing their opponent's movement against them."

"In a bar fight, maybe."

"Yes. And it can be difficult to hit a drunk."

"Tyrael punched you readily enough when you were top full on mead." He chortled when Malthael scowled. "I had to hit at least once today. But, I think you may be right. This could work with some practice. What is the worst we can do, anyway? Try and fail? The only thing we could possibly lose is time."

"I have time." He flexed his fingers, wincing as the joints in his arm audibly popped. "Unfortunately."

Lyndon waited a beat before replying quietly, "The answers you want aren't here. You know that."

"Of course."

"Then why do you keep trying to find them?"

Malthael looked to his feet, his expression growing distant. "Why do _you_ pursue all of this so impatiently, knowing what you seek will only come with adjustment and practice?"

"Because to not try would be to give up and lose. And it would be a terrible disrespect to Kormac. If he were here in my stead, he would try even harder."

"Correct." He paused. "You _are_ a skilled fighter."

"Is that a compliment? From you?"

"Possibly."

"Then I will take it and the chance to escape your beatings." Truly, it did warm Lyndon's heart to hear it. Even if he did not feel particularly talented now. "Tomorrow, then? Same place?"

"Tomorrow."

* * *

As soon as Lyndon was out of sight, Malthael returned to his quarters, gathered his reading material, and found an isolated spot to work away from the town square. Everyone seemed to think he had put aside his research in order to help his friend, and indeed, Malthael would have given up many things to assist Lyndon. He owed him far more than he could ever repay. He was also, however, more than capable of doing both, even if it meant reducing his sleeping hours. Again.

Sleep hardly helped anyway, he thought, as he settled against one of the town's outer walls and arranged his books. His dreams were not kind and continually reminded him of everything he had lost. At least when he was awake, he didn't have to continually reexperience the Arch shattering or Imperius' helm sliding from his shoulders.

And regardless if he slept or not, his hands shook no matter how hard he tried to steady them. They had since they had been coated in the ice of Death. They ached as badly as his arms did, and no amount of rest or arcane healing seemed able to repair the damage he had done.

Pushing the pain away as best he could, he fetched his quill and pressed it against a page. He had garnered a second journal for the purpose of making notes so as not to fill his usual book with messy scribblings. The small discoveries he had gleaned from Tristram's library were scrawled between the new tome's pages in a mix of haphazard notes and crude diagrams. It all confirmed his greatest fear: that records dating back to the time of the first Nephalem were scarce if not impossible to find.

The Heavens had not known about Sanctuary at that time, and thus no angelic scholars had observed and recorded the mortals at the peak of their power. The only seraph who had encountered them at all were the ones who had dealt with Uldyssian and his kin. Most of what he found were legends, like rumours watered down with time. That the Nephalem had once been more powerful than angels and demons alike seemed to be a given and had been proven true in the present as well as the past. Still, Malthael found no examples of Nephalem who had directly imbued Heavenly power, or who had utilized weapons crafted from the Arch like the Angiris did.

Lyndon was right. The information he needed was outside of Tristram, which meant he was unable to do more until he was strong enough to travel. And with winter fast approaching, that was not an activity he particularly looked forward to.

"Mmmmmfph."

Confused, he looked up from his reading and found a young child staring at him. He had not heard him approach, though given his small stature and worn boats, that was not surprising. He tipped his head inquisitively, bidding him speak again, hopefully more coherently.

Instead, the child giggled, his expression brightening. Malthael recognized him, then. Talm's son, who he had last seen more than two months ago when he had found them and the other survivors under an overturned wagon in Salvos. He had been meaning to speak with them, but his time had been consumed by reading, working with Lyndon, and the brief but precious moments he had found with Farah.

"Mmmmmfph," Nat said, again.

Malthael sighed. "Where is your father?"

"Dunno."

That was a proper word, at least. "Your mother?"

"Dunno."

"Are you lost?"

The boy shrugged.

"Can I…help you?"

In reply, Nat pushed Malthael's journal to the side and crawled directly onto his lap. When he tried to carefully extricate him, the toddler stuck his arms and legs out, allowed his body to go limp, and cried. Eventually, Malthael gave up and resigned himself to becoming a chair.

Of all the ridiculous situations he had been in during his mortal years, this was by far the worst. Nat may have done similar things to his parents, but Malthael's legs were certainly not a cushion, nor did he appreciate having his personal space disrupted. Not that the child seemed to care. As soon as Malthael stopped trying to remove him, Nat regained his happy disposition and began flipping the pages of one of his reference books with an extreme disregard for its fragility.

"That is _very old_," Malthael managed, attempting to redirect Nat's attention to something else. He could only imagine the tongue-lashing Farah would give him if he brought the book back torn in half. "You must treat it with respect."

Nat looked at him, giggled again, and began flipping the pages with additional enthusiasm.

_Spawn of demons._

Thankfully, the boy tired quickly of the game and settled on a section regarding the lesser demons. It was not exactly relevant to Malthael's search, but he preferred the useless information to the eventual death of the book.

Nat pointed a finger at an illustration and stared at him expectantly.

Malthael stared back.

"What that?"

"Better. _That_ is a Mallet Lord."

Flip. "What that?"

"Boggit."

Flip. "…Bird?"

"Terror bat. Must we continue?" Perhaps he could lend him the book and have him learn from it directly. "Here." He picked Nat up and, before he could protest, set him down to his side. "Book. Spot. Read."

Nat stared wide eyed between him and the book. He shoved the text back, his lip quivering.

"Read," Malthael insisted.

"Mmmmmmfph." The cry gradually grew into a high-pitched whine that made Malthael's ears hurt. "Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee."

When _did_ mortals teach their young to read? He had never considered that before. The ability was so instinctual for him that it was strange to imagine it must be taught, though he had met enough illiterate individuals to know it was indeed the case. Most of the children in Tristram were older than Nat, and he had never seen one unable to follow the simplest books.

He really did not want to be responsible for teaching the boy anything. But he was also deeply offended that he could not piece two written words together. If Nat insisted on having his company, perhaps he could spend the time beneficially.

"Read!" Nat repeated, jabbing the text into Malthael's ribs as his howling subsided. "Read book!"

"Fine. I will read."

* * *

Lena pressed her palms to her eyes and tried to massage some tears into existence to help with the dryness; it had been a long time since she had spent a full afternoon reading and they burned terribly. The lighting in the library's back room was dim, and worse, she had wasted hours and still not found what she was looking for. Or rather, proof of what she remembered.

Regardless of what Talm argued, she did not trust Malthael. His disconnected composure in the battlefield was alarming. Not because he displayed the mindset of a soldier, but because of the aura he carried about him. She had never met a person who was not in some way afraid of death. He surely wasn't. Unnaturally so.

And those Helldamned swords, or whatever they were, had haunted her nightmares for years. She remembered little of her family's escape from Westmarch. But she would never completely forget the shade that had manifested behind them, its dark form towering over her father and grandmother. Or how it had coldly swept its curved blades downward, slaying them as they ran.

Discouraged, she absently flipped through the remaining pages of the book. A sketch caught her eye, and she paused, returning to it. Her heart jumped and stifled the urge to scream. She forced herself to look at the shade, which was drawn in greater detail than she recalled, and face the terror that had pursued her.

_**The Reaper of Westmarch**_, it read.

The weapons were different. A pair, certainly, and curved, but not the same as the ones Malthael carried. The ones in the drawing were complex, the hilts decorated and the metal dark. His were simple and glowed with a bright, clean light.

She sat back, at once perplexed and frustrated. Perhaps she had misjudged him on a false memory. Or perhaps her worry was founded, and though he had not been part of her family's dark past, he was still not the sort of person she wanted to associate with. She had seen enough horror to last the rest of her life and wanted to spare Nat the same. If he was lucky, he would have the strength and innocence to forget what he had seen in Salvos. But that would be difficult as long as they were surrounded by people like Malthael, who seemed to tread uncomfortably close to the darkness.

Distantly, in the main library hall, she heard Farah's voice break out into loud, raucous laughter.

"Oh. Oh, what have we here?"

Lena didn't hear the reply, but she assumed it was amusing, as the librarian continued to chortle.

"That is most admirable of you, _pi'ra._ Did you have any success? No?"

Then came a squeal Lena did recognize. She slammed the book closed and strode out into the study area, where she found Nat, apparently having escaped his father, scaling across Malthael as though he was a tree. The older man looked like someone had substituted his drinking water for demon piss, and he was barely managing to keep Nat upright on his shoulder.

"Nat!" Lena put her hands on her hips and scowled. "Where is your father?"

Both Nat and Malthael snapped around to face her, guilt apparent on their faces in varying degrees.

"Dunno," Nat said, grinning.

To the side, Farah bit on her lip as though she were trying to hold in addition laughter. "He is very distressed your son cannot read."

"He is two." Lena held her arms out, summoning every ounce of her self control to not look at the ceiling and scream. "Of course he cannot. Nat, come with me."

"Noooooo." He grabbed Malthael by the hair and tugged tightly. "More birds."

"Terror bats," Malthael hissed painfully, as if the clarification helped the situation make any sense. "Please. Stop. Now."

"He does not need to learn about monsters. Please let go of my son."

"I would, if he were not in danger of plummeting to his death or scalping me." He grimaced as Nat continued his panicked wiggle. "Child, your mother is cross."

"No no no no no."

Lena was about to remove Nat herself when Malthael unexpectedly knelt, pulled him from his shoulder, and held him at arm's length. Nat stomped his feet and cried, but he did not try and rush him again.

"Perhaps if you ask your father and mother later you may return to the library tomorrow." He glanced at Lena briefly. "I am sure there are more appropriate books for you here. Somewhere."

"No no no."

"Perhaps if you ask your mother _right now,_ she will allow you to return tomorrow."

Dumbfounded, Lena swept over and scooped up Nat before he could escape. She was well adjusted to his tantrums and held him fast as he yelped and tried to wiggle away.

"Want come back," Nat howled, digging his fingers into her back. "Want come back."

Malthael returned her glare with a raised eyebrow.

"We can discuss it with your father," she said curtly, "along with how you escaped."

"Want come back!"

She stalked to the door, meeting every one of Nat's attempts to elude her with a faster parry. "Say goodbye to the helpful librarian, Nathaniel."

"Want come baaaaaack!"

"Goodbye, Nat," Farah called. "Goodbye, Lena. Please come back soon!"

Heaven help her. She was going to have a word with Talm after she managed to calm Nat down. And then she was going to speak to Tyrael, or whoever oversaw the damn town, about how incredibly unhelpful the rest of them were.

As if learning to read was what Nat needed after all that had happened to him.

* * *

"Long day?"

Tyrael looked up from his paperwork to find Aya leaning against the doorframe, the late afternoon sun casting her figure in stark silhouette. He smiled slightly and gestured for her to join him. He had been spending more days than not in the town's office, sifting through records, helping organize settlements, and the other various responsibilities he had undertaken for more than two decades in addition to leading the Horadrim. The work had become near overwhelming since the new Nephalem had arrived. Aya had taken on some of it to help lessen the burden, but even then, he still found himself spending hours staring blearily at parchment.

"You could say that," he chuckled, as she pulled up a chair to the desk. "I just had a delicate conversation with Lena about her son."

Her brow furrowed. "Is he doing all right? I heard he was having nightmares."

"Oh, more than all right, though I'm not sure the dreams have stopped. He seems to have found a new friend. They spent the day together reading."

"That's wonderful!" She paused. "Why do I have the sense she was upset about it?"

"It may have been because the friend is my brother," Tyrael replied, his smile turning wry at her surprised expression. "Not by his choice, from what I heard. I think he was claimed."

"I am honestly shocked he tolerated him. He's hardly fond of children."

"No, but according to Farah, he is even less fond of someone not being able to read."

"Ah. Then, the only person pleased about the entire thing is little Nat." She chewed her lip for a moment, as though something was troubling her. "Malthael isn't exactly sociable. I'm not surprised she dislikes him."

"And they've been through a great deal," he added softly. "They saw battle. They saw him fight. Not everyone is a warrior."

And not all warriors fought as Malthael did. His brother never held back if a situation required it. The sort of carnage he wrought was terrifying. It still was to Tyrael, even after so many years of knowing him as a mortal and firmly believing he was fighting for the Light. But it was a natural human reaction to fear death, and Death was what Malthael wielded.

Tyrael knew of the pledge his brother had made to avoid it. The townsfolk Malthael had rescued hadn't just seen him wield souls. They had seen him at his most uncontrolled. The man Tyrael had fought beside later had composure and refinement because he'd had no choice but to find it. He had been nearly unflappable, a commanding presence on the battlefield, even at the end, when—

"Tyrael."

"My apologies." He shook his head and refocused on his friend. She perched on the edge of the desk and considered him with worried eyes. "I spoke to her and I think I calmed some of her fears. Told her I would ensure the two would have supervision if they were to spend time together reading."

"That shouldn't be hard if they keep it to the library."

"Exactly. And if anything, perhaps it will give Malthael something to do." He finally let the parchments he'd been carrying slide from his hands to the desk, then rubbed a thumb between his eyes. "Bron came to speak to me today as well. He wanted to know if we were still putting on the Night celebration this year."

"I can't see why not. We could use some joy in the world."

"Our supplies are a bit sparse, but we can manage. Something smaller, at least. At the tavern."

"We need it," Aya said, her expression still serious. She reached over and gently brushed her fingers across his cheek, before withdrawing. "We all need it, Tyrael. It feels…" She trailed off.

"It feels like everything has changed," he finished, nodding when she did. "Unfamiliar. New."

"Tristram hasn't changed much. New faces maybe. We've had that before. But still, I think something familiar, something to take our minds off things…it would help."

"Something familiar," he echoed, taking only small solace in the idea.

"Did you want me to speak to him and help organize the evening?"

"That might be best. I told him I would try and do so, but, well—" He glanced at the piles of papers he hadn't begun reading. "I may reach my grave before I finish this."

She leaned towards him again, her eyes narrowing. "You're as bad as your brother. Make sure you rest tonight."

"I will."

"No working late."

"You have my word."

"And I will keep you to it." She hopped from the desk, the gems on her robes catching some of the lingering light spilling into the room. She added quietly, "Eventually, change becomes fact. The future becomes the past. Gods know, Tyrael, I've lived through this before. Not _this_, but something just as world-shaking. It hurts something awful, and then you begin to forget the hurt, and you begin to remember how to feel. And I know this because _you_ were that change for me, all those years ago."

A pleasant heat rose to his ears, along with the nervous trepidation that always came with considering something less transient. "Aya…"

"Don't forget what's standing before you. Some things pass, but the rest will still be here come morn. And the morn after, and the morn after that." She strode to the door, pausing only to glance at him over her shoulder. "I'll talk to Bron on one condition."

"Yes?"

"That you are my escort for the party. No excuses. You are going to take a break."

How could he say no to the offer? He gave her a knowing chuckle as a grin sneaked its way onto his face. "All right, then. You have my word."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lena has seen some things, too. Things she wishes she could forget. Next chapter, our friends make some time to celebrate and let go. That can't possibly go wrong.
> 
> Thanks for your patience with the delay. I had meant to post last week but was struck down with the pestilence. Hope you all enjoy!


	4. Act 1: Breathe - Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tristram's residents gather at the tavern to celebrate the Night of Souls in a slightly different fashion. Painful truths are revealed, and the past catches up with Malthael.

**Chapter Three: Release**

Tyrael tightened his cloak about his shoulders as he waited patiently outside Aya and Farah's home. The cold still managed to penetrate through the thick woollen garment, making him wish he had thrown on some heavier gear below it. The temperature had finally dropped a week earlier, and the air carried the telltale feel of snow, though none had yet fallen on Tristram. It was typical weather for the Night of Souls, though the festival itself would be anything but typical that year.

"Tyrael!" Aya smiled as she opened the door, gesturing for him to enter. "Come in."

"Are you busy?"

"Hardly." She laughed. "Bron told me to relax. Said I've done enough. Anyway, I think he has everything in hand for the celebration. I thought I would take a moment and have a warm soak and try and shake off all the dust." She spun slowly to show him the colourful robes she had donned. "I'll miss the spookier elements, but I think we've mourned the dead enough this autumn."

"And I think the dead would tell us to live, at least for one evening," he replied, smiling widely. "You look lovely. I can only hope I look as suitable a companion for you."

The subtlest blush crossed her cheeks. "I was hoping you hadn't forgotten."

"Why else do you think I would be at your door?"

Aya stared at him, and for a moment, Tyrael thought he had erred so horrifically that she would slam the door in his face. Then she dissolved into peels of laughter, her shoulders shaking and causing her hair to drift about.

"Usually it's because your brother has done something ridiculous," she snickered. Before he could reply, she reached over and placed her fingers across his lips. "Shush. I'm only bothering you. Let me find a cloak and let us find our party."

* * *

The Slaughtered Calf Inn was already packed when they arrived. Revellers streamed in and out of the tavern, carrying flagons of mead and ale with them. The air was rife with the hearty scent of fall stew; Tyrael saw a few pots of it scattered around the tables, kernels of corn rising to float on the top of the pumpkin base. It was one of Bron's better dishes and usually signalled the end of the harvest season. Tonight, it was meant to be a meal of companionship and celebration.

"Ah, Tyrael! Join us!" Lyndon called, waving at them from a table nearer the bar.

Eirena mirrored the gesture as they approached, offering up a warm grin and an unexpected flutter of leaf-winged butterflies from an open palm. Tyrael had seen little of her since the battle, as she had spent most of her time helping escort civilian survivors back to their farms and homes.

"It is good to see you back safely," he said, returning the smile. "When did you arrive? And how was the road?"

"A few hours ago. And messy. Many good for nothings trying to take advantage of people in a crisis. I gave them their own problems to think about." She snapped her fingers, causing the butterflies to tumble to the table as dried leaves now devoid of the arcane. "This was welcome to return to, though." She glanced at the empty stew bowls and steins already littering the table. "It feels good to dress like a flower again instead of a worn bag of potatoes."

Lyndon smirked. "Ah, you always look like a blossom, my dear. Though, perhaps your roots require some watering?"

"You cad!" She giggled. "I may have missed you, thorns and all."

"Roses have thorns. And yet, they are still prized by even the stuffiest nobility."

"I shall give you some stuffy nobility."

"Someplace else," Aya groaned, taking a seat as far from Lyndon as possible. "Honestly, Eirena, I'm glad you're back. I can't imagine how he's kept all this contained while you've been away."

"I've been in too much pain to flirt with anything but a rock."

"Then you shouldn't have asked Malthael to beat the sense out of you. That is no fault but your own."

"You've found me out. My poorest decision, laid bare." He paused long enough to cock a seductive eyebrow at Eirena.

"Oh, stop it," she replied, snapping her fingers again and letting loose a sudden flurry of ladybugs that scurried about his head. He batted at them with amusement, before quieting down and leaning against her shoulder. "That's better."

Tyrael had been so distracted listening to the pair that he hadn't initially noticed Farah sitting at the table's corner. Like the others, she had delved into her wardrobe for the festivities. Instead of her usual outfit, she wore a flowing silk robe adorned with golden embroidery and draped sleeves. Before he could greet her, Eirena raised a hand and gestured for him to keep silent. Then she pointed across the tavern to where Malthael was perched on a chair by the hearth, Nat seated on his lap and a pile of books stacked on the table next to them. Farah watched the two silently, enraptured.

Lyndon followed Tyrael's gaze before remarking lightheartedly, "I still think he has gone mad. Of all the things to fixate on."

Aya snickered. "I didn't realize he was still attempting that. Has he had any success?"

"If it were up to simple effort, possibly? Nat seems clever enough, but I think he misunderstands the progression of the mortal mind. The boy is more concerned with absconding with his baking than learning to read."

Tyrael gestured to the barmaid for a drink and a bowl as she passed. "He must be fond of him then if he's sharing that," he chuckled.

Aya tapped the barmaid on the shoulder and requested the same, before reaching out and waving a hand in front of her sister. Farah jumped and gave a soft squeak, her cheeks flushing much like Aya's had earlier.

"Your time for such things has passed," teased the arcanist.

She scoffed and shook her head. "You know I do not want one. Running a library is enough to keep me occupied."

"You can live vicariously through others."

"Yes. And I am happy to see Malthael have a hobby that does not involve him anxiously rushing about town searching for something he cannot name."

"As am I," Tyrael held a hand to his ear. "And, do you hear that? That is laughter. From a child who has seen some very terrible things."

"Your brother makes me laugh too." Lyndon grinned. "That face. Hideous."

"No wonder he's been slapping you senseless," Eirena snorted.

"Oh, when has Malthael ever given an imp's arse about what people think of him? He enjoys throwing me to the ground because it amuses him. I'm simply the only person here who asks for it."

"I don't think my brother is the only one who needs a new hobby." Tyrael snorted. "I suppose we do all need the time to recover. A moment to sit and relax and breathe in this life around us."

The scoundrel raised his flagon in appreciation. "And so long as my muscles twinge and my bruises ache, I remember I'm alive."

"Alive," he echoed, before solemnly fetching one of the steins that had just been brought around to the table and raising it in response. "That we are. Thank the Light for it."

* * *

"Again!" Nat squirmed and tried to turn the book over. "Again."

"We have read it three times already." All the same, Malthael returned to the first page; he paused as Nat stared at him expectantly. "Fine. I was walking through the fields, and what did I see-"

The child giggled.

"—but a fat, angry boggit, throwing rocks at a tree."

Two pages in, Nat became a writhing pit of laughter, which was a page earlier than the previous time.

"Again!"

He sighed and glanced over to the others. Farah smiled and waved at him. None of the rest made any move to help, and Talm and Lena had disappeared earlier and were still nowhere to be seen. He appreciated that they trusted him enough now to watch their son, but he also wanted to partake in adult conversation at some point during the night.

"Perhaps we can work on words. Boggit."

"Caaaaat."

"Boggit."

"Caaaaat."

Malthael closed the book and gave Nat his sternest expression. "No. Boggit."

"Caaaaat." The child stared at him in return, then snorted, giggled, and covered his face. "Mal funny."

"Malthael."

"Malthin?"

"Malthael."

"Malthy."

Before he could even reply, Tyrael's booming laughter sounded from across the room. Malthael turned and glared, discovering quickly they were all looking his way now, having apparently been following the horrible debacle to its conclusion. He raised an eyebrow and jabbed an index finger at Nat, silently begging the others to relieve him of his duties.

Perhaps children were more intuitive than adults, for Nat immediately bounded off his lap, stumbled across the tavern, and fell face first into Farah's legs. Malthael followed him to the table, relieved to see someone else finally entertaining the boy.

"Malthy," Lyndon cackled. "Nat, you are a treasure."

"No. That is not my name."

Nat grinned as Farah hoisted him onto her lap. He pointed at Malthael. "Uncle Malthy."

The scoundrel shrugged innocently. "It is now."

Malthael glowered in return. "No."

"No," Nat imitated, causing the rest of them to join in the laughter.

The entire scene made his chest burn with uncontrollable irritation. He wrapped his fingers around the nearest empty chair, knuckles whitening. It was a ridiculous thing to be angry about. He knew that. But his name was also _his_. He had fought for it, had died for it, and reclaimed it, for all it represented.

"_**You know that is not why you are enraged."**_

He squeezed his eyes shut and growled softly, begging the voice to stop and at least grant him that small mercy for once.

"Pi'ra? What's wrong?"

Light be damned, his name, that smallest of things, was the only thing he could control, and even it was slipping away from him. He could not stop the winter and the snows from coming, or his joints from aching. He could not fix the Chalice or undo what they had done to the Arch. He could not bring his kin back or resurrect his siblings.

He was as powerless as he had ever been in the entirety of his existence. It made him angry, so terribly angry. And yet.

Yet.

Why, when he wanted to curl up and scream until his throat was raw, was he laughing instead? Uncontrollably so, until he ran out of breath and tears streamed down his face, and he hid behind his hands so they couldn't see the sheer degree to which he was coming undone. Why was this frustration such a needed, and unexpected, relief? He hadn't even been aware of the depth of his rage until then. It had taken a child to get under his skin and find where it had been buried, unseating it in a moment of unexpected vulnerability.

A child, who knew nothing else but to trust. To grow, and change, and carry on even as the world fell apart around him.

A child, doing all the things he could not.

He eventually lowered his hands, and through bleary eyes considered the worried faces around him. He shook his head wordlessly, then took his seat at the table. He could let go of the future and his worry for a moment. The present was there waiting for him, whether he wanted it or not – as were the companions who had, despite everything he had done, managed to become his family.

* * *

"Oh, come now." Lyndon pointed his stein at Malthael and grinned. "We're among friends. No one else will hear over the din. Your young companion isn't even within earshot."

"No."

"We are all extremely interested."

"I said no."

"But Lady Auriel has left us endlessly curious as to the exact timbre of your singing voice!"

"It is most unfortunate, then, that you must remain in suspense."

"Farah," Lyndon complained, turning to her. "You must convince him otherwise and then report back to us."

Her cheeks flushed. "I will do my best."

"That is underhanded!" Malthael slammed his mug to the table, spilling some of the mead. "Do not bring her into this."

"Why, because you can't say no to her?"

"That is precisely why, you disreputable arse. And you know that."

Lyndon could count on one hand the number of times he had seen Malthael intoxicated. He was never entirely sure why he chose to partake when he did, given his rigid declarations of sobriety the rest of the time. He suspected it was moments when he had grown tired of giving a damn and he wished to forget all the things that worried him. That certainly seemed the reason why that evening. Regardless of the specific reason, he enjoyed the spectacle immensely, because a drunk Malthael became a talkative Malthael, and a talkative Malthael was often hilarious.

Lyndon cackled and glanced at the librarian again. "Well then, my dear, since I seem to have uncovered an amazing power, what else would you have me guilt him into doing for you?"

Malthael jabbed a finger at him, his eyes narrowing. "No."

Farah, sadly, remained silent, though her blush did spread to her ears, and she looked as though she was indeed imagining many things.

"Perhaps you can work the same magic on his brother," Aya interjected. "Who is continually distracted by his work."

Tyrael sputtered into his drink.

"Well then, be kind would you, and give me some sort of example. I can try."

"Oh, I don't know. Time together? Alone?" She trailed off and grinned at the ceiling.

"Blast it all, I can't help any of you if you wither away from embarrassment."

"That is because we need neither your assistance nor your mocking," Malthael said, louder than Lyndon thought he intended. "And I am entirely capable of…of…"

"Of what, friend?"

"Mortaling!"

Lyndon looked to Eirena, whose expression suggested she also was skeptical of his claim. "Mortaling," he echoed. "Is that what it is called, now?"

"Verily, are you questioning my command of the common tongue?"

"Of course not. But what, pray tell, does mortaling entail?"

"Drinking tea," Farah interrupted. "Of course. And sharing meals."

Looking relieved, Malthael added with a subtle stammer, "Discussing things. Sitting near to each other."

"Bringing gifts from far away places."

"Keeping these…" he gestured at Lyndon, "…hooligans from disrupting your library."

"Reading…together…" she trailed off. "Perhaps singing?"

Malthael pinched his lips and did not reply, though he very slowly shrugged his shoulders.

Lyndon sniggered, pleasantly surprised the conversation had come back around to the proper topic. "How romantic. A song! I expect a full report, as we agreed earlier. Oh, come now, Malthy, what is that scowl?"

"My. Name. Is. Malthael."

"Malthael, then. Friend. Why that face?"

He pointed a finger at Lyndon again, seemingly struggling to think of a reply. "You," he managed, eventually. "_You_."

"Yes, me! How astute of you to notice."

"I would end this. You. Arse."

"You would slay me with your angry eyes?" Lyndon stood with a cackle, swaying as the drink hit him suddenly. He'd probably had too much, himself. Too late now. "Come, I think I understand what you need. It is a time-honoured tradition during Kingsport festivities to have a good, rousing brawl."

"Oh, Mephisto's maleficence," Aya groaned. "Lyndon. Don't."

"Though if you do, I have your back, brother!" Tyrael added.

"Unnecessary." Malthael stumbled from his chair and turned to give Farah a wobbly bow. "Wish me luck."

She sighed and bowed in return. "Good luck. Please do not break anything."

"In the tavern or himself?" Aya asked.

"Either."

The hubbub in the room grew as they walked out to where the floor had been cleared for dancing. Other patrons pushed additional tables and chairs out of the way, some cheering, others shaking their heads in quieter amusement or annoyance.

"You break anything, you fix it!" Bron shouted. "You know the rules."

Lyndon knew they were being stupid, but he didn't really care. It had been too long since he had really let loose and had this sort of fun, and he felt confident enough after all his practice that he could at least give Malthael a run for his money. Particularly since the other man was stumbling like a boy who had drank too far into his first cask.

"Would you like an advantage?" Lyndon asked, spacing his feet and putting ample distance between him and Malthael. "Go get your blades."

"I don't need them to best you." He raised his hands, palms out, and mimicked Lyndon's pose, swaying as he did.

"How feisty. Are you taunting me?"

"Is it effective?"

Tyrael raised his stein, shouting, "Strike first, brother! Take the advantage."

"Are you fighting?" Malthael replied dryly, "No? Then stop distracting me."

"I am not a distraction. I am helpful."

"Terribly so."

Lyndon counted down silently while the two argued; it wouldn't be particularly gentleman-like to interrupt when they had just begun. The moment he reached ten, however, he dove, taking the opportunity to strike while Malthael was still occupied. His foot brushed against the other man's, not hard enough to knock him over but still enough to unbalance him. The scholar hissed in alarm and stumbled backward, before scowling and resuming his physical posturing.

Lyndon's smirk became lopsided. "Running away already, Malthy?"

"_Malthael_."

He lunged, sweeping his palms forward to knock Lyndon backwards. Lyndon barely dodged in time, but still managed to use the momentum to swing his arm up and push them apart. The sudden change in direction seemed to startle Malthael; he blinked, clearing his thoughts, then struck again, blindingly fast even when he was drunk.

And this time, Lyndon was ready. He had sparred with him enough to recognize his movements, and Malthael was fighting sloppy. He ducked under the blow and planted his elbow firmly in the man's side. Malthael grunted and fell to his knees, shuffling away from him to where he could safely catch his breath.

"You sure you don't want your shotels? Come on, I know you're better than that."

In reply, Malthael leapt at him and continued the spar. Lyndon's pulse thumped as he dodged, each intercepted blow bringing him a dizzying rush. He lived for those moments when he stood precariously on the edge of defeat and managed to evade it. It was a release for him as much as he knew it was for his friend. He saw it in Malthael's eyes: a raw desire to expel the rage he kept kindled inside.

"Stop slinking away," Malthael hissed, backing away and taking another moment to catch his breath. Beads of sweat slid down his forehead. "You slippery weasel."

"And disregard all the excellent strategies you have taught me? I think not, you obtuse hypocrite."

"Oi, Bron," someone called from the crowd. "You taking bets on this?"

"Only if you're putting up coin."

"I'll put five down on Lyndon."

Oh, now that wouldn't do. Lyndon rolled his eyes and exclaimed, "Am I not worth more than that?"

Soon the tavern was filled with more calls for bets. Bron quickly gathered a pile of gold on the counter and gestured for them to continue. "Well, what are you waiting for? Keep my patrons happy."

"Well, you heard him," Lyndon said, cracking his neck and back a couple times before turning back to Malthael. "Let's not disappoint. Unless you concede?"

"I do _not concede._"

"Ah, what a pity," he replied, as he deflected a punch with his forearm.

"Giving up benefits no one."

That belief, at its heart, was why Lyndon was fighting him that evening. Malthael had given him the strength to reclaim his craft; the least he could do was return the favour and teach the man something in return.

"Neither does letting your own arrogance best you!" Seeing an opening, he angled his palm towards Malthael's face. The other man barely dodged, and the blow glanced his cheekbone. "Or would you rather we find your corpse frozen on a bench this winter?"

The unrestrained snarl that escaped Malthael made Lyndon's flesh bump. "It's my responsibility," he growled, absently raising a hand to brush the newly blossoming bruise. "My fault. Mine to fix."

"What would you do, piece the Arch back together a shard at a time? Don't be a dumbarse." A few whispered gasps sounded about the room, but Lyndon didn't particularly care if the secret had gotten out. The world would find out, eventually. What mattered to him most at that moment was that he kept his friend together, as Malthael seemed intent on tearing himself into the same broken pieces.

"You're smarter than this," he continued, frowning as Malthael lunged and missed. "Are you trying to kill yourself?"

"Enough."

"Isn't that what you did before? Embrace the darkness, and maybe some pathetic, demon spawn of a Nephalem will put you out of your misery?"

"_Silence_."

"I will not be silent, because I know you are better than how you have been acting, and I refuse to let you continue this stupid crusade of yours. I didn't save your life for you to squander it." He flinched as Malthael's foot swept by a hair's breadth from his head. "Is it that hard to admit you need help?"

Instead of replying, Malthael tried to plant his boot into Lyndon's skull again, far more accurately this time. With barely a conscious thought, Lyndon willed himself away. The tavern blurred and snapped out of existence momentarily, before returning him to the world several steps to the side. He spun and wrapped his arm around Malthael's trunk, throwing them both to the floor.

A loud crack echoed as the back of Malthael's head hit the wood. From the crowd, Farah gasped loudly.

"Are you still the gods-fucking Reaper of Westmarch," Lyndon roared, as his friend stared up at him, dazed. "Or have you acquired some mortal wisdom in all these years?"

Gods, he was tired. Tired of jumping in the way of whatever was about to kill his friends. He wished he could summon on command whatever let him do that trick the rest of the time. Light knew, if he'd been nearer to Kormac, he would have tried the same.

There were too many self-sacrificing fools to stop all of them, and yet, he kept trying, because what else was he to do when he also owed his life to many in turn? He didn't know how to repay them except return the favor in kind.

"We can't keep doing this," Lyndon groaned, as he slid off Malthael and offered his hand. "One or both of us is going to get the other killed."

Shame cascaded across Malthael's face. His brows fell, and the rage that had overcome him a moment ago vanished completely. Instead of accepting Lyndon's hand, he raised his to his face and pressed his fingers to his eyes.

Quieter, Lyndon continued: "You are not responsible for your idiot brother. Or for the state of the world or what we had to do. Blame Anu if you need, for creating you and your kin the way he did. But don't blame yourself. There's enough misery to go around already."

The tavern fell silent, save for a sudden, harsh wail from the back. Lyndon twisted towards the sound and saw the crowd parting around where Lena stood with her family. Tears streaked down her cheeks. Yet, there was no sadness in her face, only a raw fury that mirrored Malthael's from moments earlier.

"You," she sneered, stepping towards them. "You foul, loathsome being."

Having finally noticed her stalking towards them, Malthael sat and draped his arms across his knees, his eyes wide with confusion.

Lyndon figured it out far before he did. _Oh, hells. I said the wrong thing._

"Lena, don't," Talm shouted, reaching for her while he held Nat against his chest.

"Don't do this to me," she hissed, looking back to her husband. "Did you know?"

"Of course not! I never…"

"You never thought to ask?" She returned to glowering at Malthael, who had crawled away from her and was desperately reaching out for a table or chair to help him stand. "He wanted to name him after you. Did you know that? I told him no, because we barely knew you, and he is overly romantic, and…" Her words trailed off into a pained groan.

Lyndon jumped as someone grabbed his shoulder and pulled him back towards the table.

"Come," Eirena whispered.

He didn't argue. As badly as he wanted it to intervene, it was never his place to defend what Malthael had done. That was his friend's burden to carry. Even if it hurt to watch, his time to help was later, when the damage was done. He saw the same fleeting feelings cross Farah's face; her eyes were wide with pained understanding. She cared for Malthael more than anyone else in the world, but even then, she couldn't carry his sins for him.

He could help _her_, at least. Sliding close, he rubbed her back gently, exhaling in relief when Eirena and Aya did the same.

Meanwhile, Lena had followed Malthael to the corner of the tavern, where he had managed to pull himself onto a chair and leaned against the wall. "You don't even remember, do you? But do you know something? I remember _you_."

When he didn't reply, she grabbed a stein from the table and threw it against the wall. It shattered above him, raining glass and the remnants of ale onto his head. He flinched but didn't move.

"We ran," she growled, shoulders shaking. "There was fire, and smoke, and these…awful things. My mother and father took me into the streets, and we ran, and they followed. But it wasn't them who took my father. Or my grandmother. It was a ghost. Curved blades, a tall hood. It ripped their souls out of them."

Malthael's shoulders slumped; empty, glazed eyes looked to the floor.

"I didn't even have a chance to mourn because we had to run. And we escaped, and the city burned, and my mother became a farm wife because we had no home to return to. Can you even imagine what that's like? To lose everything and have to start over? To lose the people you love?"

He muttered something.

"Speak so I can hear you, you pathetic cretin."

His head snapped back up then, revealing wet eyes. He rasped, "Yes. I can."

She grabbed another stein and began to swing it at his head, before hesitating. Her breath came in broken rattles. "I hate you," she whispered. "You took so much from me. And my son, he…he loves you so much."

"I didn't know. I didn't…"

"Of course you didn't. It's the past, isn't it? You are forgiven, and no one discusses it, because of all the _good_ you do."

She lowered the stein, though her gaze continued to burn into him. "Do you feel guilt at least? Are you capable of that?"

"…Yes."

"Do you remember them?"

He shook his head.

"Remember this, then. I do not forgive you. And if you ever, _ever_ do something to hurt my son, I will end this paltry respite you call your existence."

Lyndon flinched as an ear-splitting scream interrupted them. Nat was struggling against Talm's grip, trying to escape and run towards his mother and Malthael. He howled, his cheeks reddening while he flailed. "No no no no."

Lena paled, as though she had suddenly come to her senses and realized what she had been about to do. She stared blankly at the man collapsed before her.

"Monsters _become_," he said hoarsely. "Do not regret your choice."

"This mercy is not for you."

"I know."

Nat's howl interrupted them again. Wearily, Lena turned and placed the stein back on the table, then returned to her family. The child fell into her arms, burying his face against her chest, sniffling.

"No no no."

She shushed him and gently rubbed his head. "It's all right. I'm here. I'm not going anywhere."

"No no no. No more. No more."

"You're safe. No more fighting. I promise."

He hiccupped. "Promise?"

"Promise," she whispered, before lowering her face and rubbing it into his hair.

Now was Lyndon's chance. "Pardon," he muttered to the others before he rushed to Malthael's side. He slid his arm under his shoulder and helped him stand and trudge to the tavern door. Then they were outside, away from the heat of the hearth and the flames of revenge, and into the bone-rending chill of the impending winter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Sometimes before you rise, you have to hit rock bottom. Sorry for the roller coaster emotional ride that is this chapter. I promise things get better soon.
> 
> Some chapter facts…Lena was only a bit older than Nat when Westmarch was attacked by the Reapers; she remembers far more of it than she likes. Lyndon can indeed 'blink' like he does in the game, though as we'll see later, there's a bit more to it than just thinking about it. Malthael and Nat both fell asleep reading at least once during the time skip before this chapter, and I hope the mental image of the two of them drooling in the library provides some small comfort and amusement.


	5. Act 1: Breathe - Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lyndon and Malthael have a heart to heart, Malthael learns about hangovers and catharsis, and things finally begin to settle down in New Tristram for the winter. End of Act 1.

**Chapter Four: Respite**

Outside the tavern, the impenetrable darkness of night had descended upon Tristram. Lyndon's breath escaped in cloudy wafts as he led a stumbling Malthael through the near-deserted streets. The brisk fall air was already biting at his exposed skin, though not dangerously enough to deter him. They were adjusted to the warmer summer winds, and with some time and a bit of hardening, he knew he would acclimatize before the snows arrived.

On the town's outskirts, they found a deserted bench overlooking some browning shrubs. It was surrounded by a ring of towering oaks, obscuring some of the sky above, as well as the bench itself from nosey passersby.

Malthael collapsed onto it and pressed shaking palms to his face. Lyndon took the spot beside him and glanced up to where a few stars were peeking out from around the edges of branches and the oaks' few remaining leaves. He pointedly avoided looking at his friend, not out of any personal discomfort, but because he wanted to afford him as much privacy as possible while he sobbed uncontrollably. The man's muffled keening contrasted sharply with how silent the rest of the town had become.

If the other residents had any sense about them, they wouldn't go looking for the noise after what had occurred in the tavern. Lyndon didn't have the patience for sending anyone off politely. Thankfully, the only company that joined him was the intensifying chill; he wrapped his arm about his core, rubbing at his biceps to try and ward off the stiffness that would come if he stayed outside too long.

They stayed that way together for many minutes, until Malthael's shoulders stopped heaving and Lyndon felt comfortable enough to speak.

"Is that the first time? You've wept like that, I mean."

Malthael grunted from behind his hands.

"The last time I did…gods, I don't think I ever told you. Haven't told anyone. Except Eirena and Kormac, and Osseus, and I think Tyrael found out at one point. Was around the time we fought you. I learned my brother was murdered by his wife. My old flame, at that. I thought I could keep it all in, stay calm like I always did, because we had so many more important things to do than cry. And you know what happened?" He finally glanced to Malthael. "The same thing that just happened to you. I couldn't sleep. It was all I could think about. This terrible, awful thing I couldn't control."

"Wasn't a thing _you_ did. Didn't kill Lena's family."

Lyndon barked a laugh. "You think that mattered? I still fell apart. Ignoring it did nothing." He tapped his chest. "It stayed here, and it ate away at me until it chewed its way out. I didn't even weep that way for Kormac, when I think about it. I suppose it's because I was expecting one or all of us to die then. And I did it properly. Gave myself the chance I needed to mourn. Still hurts, but that will lessen with time."

"Don't have time."

"I don't mean time to write a treatise on your mistakes. I mean time to give yourself a bath or whatever else you need do to care for _yourself_." He frowned. "Damn it, you know how I feel about your past. It is what it is. A part of me loathes you for it and always will. I saw the despair firsthand. Those memories will never leave me. But I'm also not fool enough to believe you are the same being. And the person you have become, well, I consider him a friend."

He let the statement hang between them. Eventually, Malthael tipped his head slightly and peered at Lyndon from between tear-stained fingers. "I am grateful for that," he rasped.

"Don't be too much. You're also an imbecilic arse who believes he matters to no one. No, don't shy away from that or from me. The reason you don't have a stein broken across your head is because you matter to that child. And in case you haven't noticed, you also matter a great deal to others, myself included, as well as a certain librarian who is likely fretting about your safety."

"I wouldn't know why. I have erred grievously."

"We all have. It's part of being human. I won't tolerate this pity party of you assigning the world's blame to yourself. And I won't let you to take sole responsibility for what occurred in the Heavens."

Malthael's shoulders jerked as he turned suddenly, one palm smashing onto the bench between them, the other trailing down his face, fingers scraping at the lengthy stubble on his chin. "I murdered them. My kin. I destroyed their home and any chance of rebirth. I couldn't save them. I couldn't even…I couldn't…" He closed his eyes as his entire body shuddered. "I couldn't even save Imperius. I knew what was happening, and I still…"

"You did what he did for you. What had to be done. I know you've killed many things, but this? This wasn't _you_." Lyndon paused, then hesitantly reached out, gripping Malthael's shoulder tightly when he didn't protest. "Things become easier if you rest, friend. You should do that."

"No time."

"There damn well is time. There is a winter of it, one where you are supposed to stay with us, and endure our terrible ribbing and any of the support we stupidly offer. What happened tonight is not an end. It's not a beginning. It simply _is_. Life continues, and we make amends for all we have done. Then we return to those who understand us enough to be merciful." He looked to his empty sleeve and exhaled pointedly. "Do you think I would have done this for no reason? Perhaps I _am_ a fool, but I believed you deserved a second chance. It's hard enough to tolerate you without adding regret into the mix. Don't prove me wrong."

Head swirling from his own alcoholic partaking, Lyndon thumped back against the bench and watched as the stars slowly tumbled behind the branches. The world was utterly still, save the occasional gasp from Malthael. It was a more comfortable silence this time, even after all Lyndon had said. Feelings spoken plainly were more comfortable than those left to fester.

To the side, Malthael mimicked Lyndon and looked upward to watch the constellations. A few shooting stars trickled into view, bright enough to escape the overwhelming glow of Tristram's lamps.

Of course, Lyndon thought, with muted wonder. It _was_ the Night, after all. The stars fell according to their own whims and did not pause for the sorrow of mortals.

"Your truths are painful," Malthael whispered.

"Of course. That is mortality. And no one likes to be the fool."

"I certainly am."

"Aye. A right mighty dumbarse, as Kormac would have said. And you'll survive."

In reply, Malthael leaned over to hide his head between his legs and retched.

"You did drink an awful lot."

"Had to keep up with you," he managed, before gagging again.

"You're still a terrible liar. Why did you really do it?"

"Wanted to…stop thinking."

"That's never a good reason." Lyndon smirked slightly. "Though you are an entertaining drunk. And a terrible duelist."

"I'd win sober."

"I'm sure. And perhaps one of these days I'll be able to leap about like I did at will, instead of by instinct."

A ghost of a smile twitched onto Malthael's lips as he tilted his head to look at Lyndon. Close enough to count, anyway. "I thought that was what you'd done. When you…" He trailed off, his eyes going to Lyndon's sleeve. "Wanted to make you do it again. Jump. Portal."

"Gods, is _that_ why you've been trying so hard to slit my throat during practice?"

"You jump from danger. Had to threaten."

"Well, you'd be right. And I'm usually several degrees less afraid of you than I need to do that."

"Pity."

"Remember how I said don't make me regret doing what I did?" He scoffed amiably. "I don't trust your judgement anyway. You're a cheap drunk, and I'm certain you know you can't teach that boy to read. He's much too young."

"I know."

"I almost think you enjoy spending time with him."

"Don't push."

"Or what, you'll spit on my boots more?"

"Perhaps."

"Perhaps you're lucky, and I'll sit with you while you do."

"You needn't."

"And let Farah find out I let you pass out alone? I don't think so."

"…Lyndon."

"Ah?"

"Thank you."

He chewed on his lip a moment, before shifting to a more comfortable, if still frigid, position; he wasn't sure how long they would be there, but he was prepared to stay as long as necessary. "You're welcome."

* * *

Aya watched the two men disappear from the tavern with a deepening frown. Around their table, the buzz of conversation slowly returned, albeit subdued from what it had been minutes earlier. The snippets she caught as revellers returned to Bron to refill their drinks were more curious than joyous; a few were drunkenly accusatory. Not that she blamed them. So much of the townsfolks' lingering reactions to Malthael were cloaked under everyone's hesitation to upset Tyrael. It was rare those sorts of feelings were expressed outwardly, let alone in public, but it was also healthy to acknowledge them from time to time.

Better than stewing on them, certainly. They had all seen what they led to.

"Should we follow them?" she asked.

Tyrael sighed and shook his head. "No. I trust Lyndon to help more than any of us."

Aya frowned but didn't argue. Tyrael knew his brother's needs better than anyone, though whether Lyndon was able to fulfill them was another matter. And truthfully, she was more worried about Farah, who had not moved since the entire debacle with Lena had started. She was busy wringing her hands on her lap and looked as though she wanted to be anywhere but the tavern.

"He'll be all right," Aya said softly. "Lyndon will sort him out."

"I should have been able to," she blurted. "I have watched him fall apart all month and I have done nothing. It shouldn't have even come to this."

"Eh, _baina_. How long have you known him? Lyndon's been his friend for a long while now. You're not expected to predict his every whim."

"I can at least try. I knew he needed help."

"And sometimes that help is not yours to give. Listen to me." Aya cupped her cheeks gently. "I know you try to help everyone, and I know we have talked about this many times. But sometimes, journeys are for one person to walk."

"He tried to tell me that once and I knew he was wrong. He wanted to use the Chalice …"

"This is not Chalad'ar. This is something personal. Something he must learn on his own."

"But how can Lyndon help if I can't…"

"Lyndon will kick the arse of whoever needs it." Aya laughed. "Including your _pi'ra_. That is what friends are for. You've done what you can and what is needed. Love is a shared burden, yes?"

Farah made a decent imitation of Malthael's scowl; they were clearly rubbing off on each other more than they realized. "It's not shared if I have done nothing."

"You _have_, and I'm sure you'll do more in time. But come, it's late. I think the celebration is over."

It was easy to try and remain cheerful when she was helping her sister. Far easier than looking at Tyrael, her soul uncomfortably muddled with the realization that they had spent another evening not speaking about their futures. She had been as direct and open with him as she felt comfortable doing, without risking pushing him into something he did not want.

Some things really were for one person to figure out, she mused. What Tyrael needed to discover in order to resolve things, she did not know. Time, perhaps. The thing they _all_ needed.

"Would you walk us home, Tyrael?" Farah asked, unexpectedly. Her eyes had regained some of their usual twinkle, and Aya realized that though her sister was sometimes less savvy when it came to her own life, she was nothing short of shrewd with others. "You are right. It is late and I am very tired. I would hate to fall asleep partway to the house and find myself covered in snow in the morning."

"Of course." He stood and offered her a hand, then extended one to Aya as well. His expression softened when he noticed her stare. They both looked away a moment, then back to each other, as if they realized simultaneously exactly what needed to be said. "It would be my pleasure. And perhaps, Aya, you might keep me company afterwards, while I attempt to forget my worry for Malthael."

Her hand fit into his palm comfortably; it brought the same warmth Tyrael always instilled in her whenever he was around. "I would love to join you."

* * *

Malthael felt horrid. And by horrid, he felt as though he had rolled in death, been dissolved in its remains, and then baked over a fire. It was beyond him why mortals chose to drink at all, let alone as regularly as many opted for. He didn't know why he thought it would help him relax. It had distracted him, yes. Momentarily. Until he had dragged Lyndon's arse about the tavern, the terrible bit with Lena had happened, and he had generally lost control of his emotions and become a weeping mass of vulnerability.

It was not his finest moment. Perhaps one of his most human, he admitted silently. But between the humiliation and the expunging of his stomach that had occurred shortly after, he really did not want to repeat it, or keep thinking about it as compulsively as he was.

"_**How unfortunate for you that idiocy demands repeated attention."**_

"Enough!" He swatted at the air in front of him before realizing the thought had not come from Lyndon, and that Lyndon had also left him to stumble inebriated back home quite a few minutes earlier.

That bit, at least, he thought he was managing properly. He was on the correct laneway; and there, at the end of the street, he could see smoke billowing from his home's chimney with all the enthusiasm of a Hell furnace. The image nagged at him as he picked his way across the cobblestones. Smoke meant fire. Fire meant wakefulness. It would not do to leave the hearth unattended.

Tyrael's hearth, precisely. Tyrael's home.

Which was in use.

He pushed his ear to the door and frowned as a string of loudly lewd noises emanated from inside.

_Brother. By the Hells and the Heavens and everything in between. I just want to sleep._

He supposed he could reclaim the bench. Only, that was the very thing Lyndon had told him not to do. He was supposed to care for himself, and he didn't think freezing to death outside was included in that. However, of the many things Malthael wanted or could do, interrupting his brother and Aya as they frolicked about was not one of them.

"Godsdamn it," he hissed.

Thank the fractured remnants of the Light that the streets were deserted. The longer he traipsed about, the harder it became to walk in a straight line, even if he was following the edge of the pathways by trailing a hand along the frost-covered bushes. Eventually, he did reach his destination. He collapsed against the door, knocked once, then twice, and found himself snickering at the entire situation.

A few moments passed, then the door cracked open slightly. Farah peered out, then opened it wider when she realized who he was. "Malthael? What are you doing here?"

He tried to reply and ended up grinning stupidly at her instead.

"I thought you were with Lyndon?"

"Lyndon went…home," he slurred; speaking had become very hard, and though he was sure there was a far better way of saying it, he couldn't parse the distinction. "Home. That way."

"Yes, Lyndon's home is that direction. Do you want help getting to _your_ home?"

"Busy." He raised a finger. "Your sister, my brother. Very busy."

"Oh. Oh, I understand." She paused, then gestured inside. "Did you want to sleep here?"

Yes, that was the idea, and a far more appealing one than curling up on the bench. What he intended to do was tell her that yes, of course he would like to sleep there if she was all right with the idea, and if she was, he would borrow a spot by the fire and would absolutely not disturb her again the rest of the night.

Instead, he took a clumsy step forward, caught his foot on the threshold, and tumbled onto the floor beside Farah's feet. "If you…would…" he grunted. Then, the ground changed from a very unwanted to an immensely comfortable friend, and his vision slowly faded into the calm and dark realm of unconsciousness.

* * *

The morning sun awoke Malthael; it glittered through the window, cascading across his face and warming his skin where it touched. He yawned and rubbed his eyes, trying to massage out the throbbing in his head. He hadn't felt so terrible since the day after Talm's wedding, when Tyrael and Lyndon had first persuaded him to partake in that Hell-cursed mead. It was almost as if—

He groaned at his own stupidity as fragments of the night's events came back to him.

Arguing with Lyndon. Sparring with Lyndon. Lena. Oh.

Yes. That _had_ happened. Followed by stumbling to the bench and vomiting on the bench, which was not something he was proud of. Lyndon going home. More walking.

Oh.

He groaned again and stretched out his legs on the sofa, wincing slightly as his knees popped from having slept at a slightly cockeyed angle. A woolen blanket slid off him to the floor as he sat. He blinked blearily a few times, rubbed his eyes again, and took better stock of the situation.

The remnants of a fire had dwindled in the hearth to small, glowing cinders. The clanging of pots rang from the kitchen, accompanied by a soft, familiar humming. Not Tyrael. Not Tyrael's home.

_Oh_. _You utter twat. How long have you been here?_

Long enough for the sun to already have risen partway through the sky. He hadn't slept that much in months, and it was the first time in at least that long that he felt truly rested. In place of the lingering exhaustion that had been his companion since the battle, he felt a growing desire to create. He wanted to read and make notes, plan his coming days and sort out exactly what he needed to do in order to progress with his research.

Once his body stopped aching, at least.

"Good morning, _pi'ra_." Farah laughed when he jumped in surprise from her appearance in the doorway. "How is your head?"

He rubbed the bridge of his nose and sighed as she joined him on the couch. "Terrible."

"I thought it would be. You were…ill-worn when you arrived."

"I wouldn't doubt. I recall a great deal of stupidity from yesterday."

She snickered again. "You've fought better."

"Luck did not prove so beneficial."

"I think the spirits you drank are more to blame for that than luck." A creased smile hid at the edges of her eyes. "I am glad you found yourself someplace warm."

"I am glad you did not mind."

"Why would you ever think I would mind?"

"This is your home. I assumed if you wanted company you would ask."

"I always assumed I wouldn't need…" She trailed off and looked to the still flickering embers in the hearth. Though her expression did not change, she began brushing her fingers across her knees, as if searching for something.

Perhaps it was the morning light, or perhaps he was finally seeing the world with a semblance of coherency – but she looked exhausted. He didn't remember the dark circles under her eyes being so prevalent, or the tired slump to her shoulders.

"_You're also an imbecilic arse who believes he matters to no one."_

Lyndon was wrong. He _did_ believe it. But he hadn't shown it. How could he have, when he had been so self-absorbed with finding some sort of catharsis alone? He hadn't looked at her in weeks. They had occupied the same space, and they had spoken, but he hadn't well and truly _seen_ her.

"_And in case you haven't noticed, you also matter a great deal to others, myself included, as well as a certain librarian who is likely fretting about your safety."_

Gods, he _was_ an imbecile. He'd wasted time trying to solve a problem that couldn't be solved and had neglected the person who loved him. Who _he_ loved, undeniably, with every broken filament of his soul. He'd been so consumed trying to prevent harm in the world that he had hurt her without even realizing it. He had ignored her when all she had wanted was to help him.

"_Are you still the gods-fucking Reaper of Westmarch? Or have you acquired some mortal wisdom in all these years?"_

The shame the statement brought still ached. He couldn't ignore it, though. Not this time.

Not if he wanted to put things right.

"Farah." He gently rested a hand on hers, squeezing tightly as she intertwined their fingers.

She turned to look at him again, her eyes widening at the physical gesture.

"I am a fool," he said quietly. "And you have been patient with me. But I owe you an apology. You deserve one." Now that he had begun, the words wanted to tumble out freely. It was all he could do to speak slowly and not rush the sincerity of what he was trying to express. "I realize nothing can help what haunts me. Nothing. But you still wished to try and help. I should have let you. You matter a great deal to me."

She leaned forward and gently tapped her forehead against his. "I know I can't change things or put them back to the way they were, but—"

"You shouldn't have to," he whispered. "You cannot. And I think, all I really needed…" Unable to articulate the sentiment properly, he simply raised their hands to her chest and held them there. "I am sorry. I will do better."

When she pulled away, he thought he had still managed to say something wrong, until he realized it was so she could give him a tentative smile.

"I was making myself some breakfast," she said. "Would you like to join me?"

The stiffness in his shoulders melted from relief. "Yes," he said, after a moment's hesitation. "Yes, I would."

* * *

Aya watched through the window as a group of children squealed and chased each other about the town square. Some waved flags, others crudely assembled wooden swords. It was soothing to watch after the confusion of the previous night; she tugged her blanket tighter around her shoulders and smiled at their innocence. Sometimes, it was good to take a step back and truly _be_. It was easy to become caught in the rush of the day and all the things being a Nephalem entailed.

"Did you see my brother yet this morning?" Tyrael asked as he joined her at the window. "I did not hear him come in last night."

She grinned. "No. Though I'll admit, he wasn't exactly my biggest consideration."

He cleared his throat loudly and stretched, turning his attention to the children outside. "Nor was it mine."

"I thought so," she murmured, leaning her head against his shoulder, then settling in more when he raised his arm to draw her close.

The strangest part of them coming together was how natural it felt. As though they should have indulged years ago and had just never thought to do so.

"We should go find him," Tyrael continued, after a moment.

Some things, it seemed, remained the same. She snickered and sneaked a quick kiss onto his neck. "Should we, now?"

"It was very cold last night."

"I didn't notice."

"Aya!"

"Oh, all right. I know you won't rest until we know he's safe." She wiggled out from under his arm and stood. "But after, I would appreciate returning to this. Deal?"

He finally cracked a smile. "Of course."

* * *

Much to Tyrael's relief, he discovered he needn't have worried about Malthael. They found him sitting with Farah against the outside wall of her home, steaming mugs of tea in hand, a thick quilt shared across them covering them up to their chests and tucked under their arms.

Malthael looked every bit the man who had drank too much the night before, but there was a serenity to his features that Tyrael had not seen…well, ever, if he really thought about it. His brother's default expression was usually one of restrained displeasure. Yet, here he was, shoulders relaxed, eyes creased in a smile, looking very much like any other mortal who had finally pulled his life together.

"How does your head feel?" Tyrael laughed at Malthael's groaned reply. "That terrible, I assume?"

"Less, actually."

"He is disappointed that you remembered enough of the evening to ask him," Farah explained. "He thinks his behaviour was unbecoming."

Malthael took a long drink from his tea and shrugged. An almost imperceptible flush coloured his cheeks. "Perhaps."

"Perhaps your general practice of avoiding alcohol is the correct one," Tyrael replied. "I don't think it agrees with you."

"It does not respect the vast dams of self-control I employ. It takes terrible advantage of me."

"Or you could simply say your self-control is terrible," Aya said, before he extended a single finger to her. "Heh. Did Lyndon teach you that?"

"You have all given me ample opportunity to practice. Though I appreciate you checking on me."

Tyrael chuckled and took a cross-legged seat beside him. "We did not hear you return last night."

"Because you were preoccupied with mortaling." He snorted. "I should acquire my own residence if you will be continuing that."

Farah, having been listening quietly since the conversation started, glanced nonchalantly at Aya and took a long sip of her tea. "Aya's room currently happens to be vacant. Maybe Tyrael would trade you for my sister?"

"She does tend to be awake at more preferable hours," Tyrael added. "And is a great deal more pleasant to look at."

"I am not a commodity!" Malthael sputtered, setting his cup down with a loud clank on the cobblestones.

"And do I have no say in this?" Aya folded her arms and glared, though she sounded far from offended. "It is still my home."

"Of course it is, _baina_. Tell us, then, what you would prefer."

"Well, Tyrael's house does have a particularly nice layout."

Tyrael almost asked if she appreciated the layout of the owner as much but managed to hold his tongue. After the previous night, he was certain of the answer. "And I would be happy to have you take up residence there."

"Then it is settled." Farah held out a hand, which he shook emphatically. "I barter one sister for your brother."

The joyful absurdity of the moment was interrupted by Malthael sighing. Tyrael turned to consider his brother with mild guilt. He personally saw nothing wrong with the decision and thought it would benefit everyone involved. However, as quick as Malthael was to react in battle, he was almost unfathomably slow to change in his personal life. That habit had certainly carried over from his immortality.

"Are you all right with this?" Farah asked, dropping Tyrael's hand so she could trail her fingers across Malthael's back.

"We won't if you don't want do," Aya added quickly.

After a moment, he shook his head. "I am not carrying all the books. If you would assist me, that would be most appreciated. And you are correct," he looked back to Tyrael with a knowing smirk, "The company would be far more pleasant."

The man was an incorrigible arse through and through, though Tyrael really couldn't fault him for it at this exact moment. "I'm sure we can find a cart," he said. "And maybe once you've made yourself at home, you should consider collecting less. You are going to run out of space eventually."

"Hardly. I will build more shelves."

Farah nodded enthusiastically. "We could always put in some near the hearth."

"Oh, Light help us." Aya groaned. "You are going to turn it into a second library."

"_Our_ library," Farah clarified, looking to Malthael for confirmation. "Our library?"

The most legitimate smile Tyrael had ever seen bloomed on his brother's face, before Malthael managed to collect himself and his expression returned to one of subdued satisfaction. "Verily. Though." He closed his eyes. "Before that, there is something else I must do."

* * *

Lena was thankfully already awake when there was a knock on the door. She had been staring absently out the window of their inn room while Talm and Nat both continued to sleep curled up together on the bed. The sun had begun to rise by the time her and Talm had fallen asleep, and she was more than content to let Nat rest if he needed it, even if it left her alone to darker thoughts.

Mostly, she felt numb, as if the unbridled array of emotions that had overtaken her earlier had been hidden behind a thick curtain. It was a familiar detachment. It had served her sanity well over the years, though she loathed how lethargic she felt in its earliest stages. She sat for several minutes, contemplating answering the door, before the knock sounded again.

Gods help her, they were going to wake the other two up. She frowned and summoned her stamina, only to open the door and find Malthael standing outside, his tunic and breeches still the ones from the night before, albeit greatly more wrinkled.

"You have nerve," she whispered, as her anger from the previous night surged through her all over again. "Are you trying to cause me more agony? Leave us."

"I wish to apologize."

"For what? For lying to Talm? For what you did to Westmarch? For killing my family? For existing?"

"I am…not sure."

"Pardon?" Confused, she slipped out of the room and quietly closed the door behind her. "You came here to tell me you don't even know what to apologize for? I don't think I slapped the sense from you yesterday."

He shifted on his feet, clearly uncomfortable. "I do not know if I can properly make amends for something so grievous."

"No. You can't. How astute of you to recognize that."

He looked away. "I wish to know if there is a way forward. Or if not, then at least a way for you to tolerate my existence while you stay here."

Was there? She wasn't sure. She didn't think anything would ever take away the fury that consumed her whenever she thought of what he had done to her father, or the sorrow that took her immediately afterwards. Yet, it was hard to reconcile that with the man who stood before her. Unarmed, unsure of himself, and very clearly regretful. He was not the being she remembered.

But he had been, once.

"Nothing will change what happened. Nothing you will do will ever bring my father or my grandmother back."

"I know."

"I don't know if I can forgive you."

He pursed his lips. "I understand."

"Even if I don't, you still owe an explanation to Talm. He deserves that much."

He nodded.

"But Nat…he has lost much that was not your fault. And if it were not for you, he wouldn't be here." She grabbed his chin and forced him to look at her. He flinched but didn't fight. "I can't stifle my rage. Perhaps over time, it will fade. But I think it may also allow me to endure your presence. For my son's sake."

"Thank you," he whispered.

Oh, how she wanted to slap him while she had the chance. She didn't think he would even protest. As quickly as her anger had risen, however, it began to fade back to impassioned detachment. Her body and soul were exhausted from years of silent screaming.

_I should listen to myself. Nothing will change what happened. Nothing he does. Nothing I do._

"Now leave, before I regret my decision." She pushed him away and stepped back to the door. "And for what it's worth, I respect you coming to talk when your faculties are intact. I prefer this to you cowering on the floor."

"As do I." He wiped at his nose unexpectedly; fresh blood stained his fingers. The nose bleed was odd, considering she hadn't hit him. "I wanted to apologize before I told you the rest. Your mother is alive, as is the rest of your family. Their lands were spared. Elm Haven, yes? That is what the sign said. From what I could see, Tam's family is also safe. I wish I could tell you more, but the rest was clouded."

Her stomach twisted with a mixture of relief and shock. That he even knew what their homestead was called - "How?"

"Another day. I would rather you return to them." Pale eyes wavered as he looked to the door a moment, before turning and retreating down the hallway. She listened to his footsteps until they faded, forcing herself to breathe and fight against the dizziness threatening to take her.

Her mother was alive. Her whole family was safe. How Malthael knew this she had no idea, but she had seen some of his power and didn't doubt it was within his capability. The revelation brought her a reprieve she had not felt since the fires had first fallen on Salvos.

It also meant they could go home, if they wished. But, Talm was right. Here, they were safe. And here, Nat had somehow reclaimed a piece of his childhood. She could not rob him of that again. He needed time to be a child, and giggle and play and do all the things she had found so much difficulty doing in her own youth. There was no rush to take him away from things that were giving him joy. Not when she finally had some of her worries eased.

She braced herself against the door and closed her eyes, allowing herself a moment to begin to truly take in what had just occurred. She had lied to Malthael, slightly. The part of her who knew him through Talm wanted to forgive him. That forgiveness would not legitimize anything he had done. And regardless of how his transformation had occurred, he was not the creature she had run from as a child.

He would never be someone Nat would fear. She knew that at a level deeper than her own grief. That, she could build from. And perhaps someday, if she was ever ready, she could tell Malthael that.

**Act 1 ~ Fin**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: This chapter ties up a lot of loose ends from the previous series. Malthael has a good cry and some character development. Farah and Tyrael get new housemates. Things finally begin to settle down (pun intended) in New Tristram for the winter.
> 
> Sorry to take so long with this one. The holidays were busy, and this chapter finished so many things I wanted to be sure it worked. I will be posting a few shorter chapters before Act II begins; no timeline for when those will go up as of yet, but it shouldn't be as long as this took. Act II will take us out of Tristram to see what Chith and Auriel have been up to.
> 
> Thanks for reading along, as always! I love hearing from you.


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